A Pome a Day for a Year

Open air, open mind,
ideas flowing like the tears of clouds,
thunder struck by ruminations
and illuminations,
wooden frame barriers eight hours
and like that, decontamination
of all that was into all that is not.

This gateway to apathy seeps
and burrows into every single surface,
one touch, one graze,
extinguishing the flickering embers
that awaited kindling,
now merely dormant ash,
a vacant throne.